


In Secret

by SouthronWildling



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Baelish's brothels, F/M, Pre-Canon, five years before A Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthronWildling/pseuds/SouthronWildling
Summary: Five years before A Game of Thrones (either book or show), one of Baelish's whores has a regular customer.





	In Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phylicia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phylicia/gifts).



Jessalyn had a secret.

There were worse places to work than in one of Littlefi- ahem - Lord Baelish's brothels. Of course, there were better places to work, as well, but better places weren't so easy to come by for someone of her... background. So she considered herself lucky that she was working here in King's Landing and at least wasn't still in Lys. Two years in King's Landing had been better than twenty in Essos.

That wasn't her secret, however. 

Six other girls were working tonight, with a few others who could be called out if they got busy, and Jessalyn was lounging on the floor pillows in her coral silk, the one that was loose and flowy and draped over her shoulders just so. It was warm in the room, and a couple of young boys waved fans to stir the humid air and assist the slight breeze that wafted through the windows. She stretched a bit, lifted her hair from the back of her neck, and then sat up as he walked in. 

The other girls shot worried looks at each other, eyes wide with trepidation as they darted from the tall figure in the doorway and then back to her. She took a deep breath and stood up, face blank before she carefully schooled it into a nervous smile. "Me, milord?" she asked, just a hint of quaver in her voice.

"Not a lord," he answered gruffly. But he jerked his head towards the corridor that led to her room. The other girls sighed in sympathy perhaps, but more likely in relief. Two of them gave her expressions full of concerned eyebrows and empathetic moues. She lifted her chin and glided away from them, led him down the corridor and into her room and shut the door behind them.

"You should be on a stage," he scoffed, spinning her around from the door and scooping her up under her arms to lift her against his chest. He was wearing his armor, though, and the edge of the pauldron dug into her breasts as he squeezed her, and she pushed back against his shoulders and made a face. 

"Must keep appearances," she said. "Put down; your armor is too hard." Her words were still accented; the common tongue felt strange in her mouth as she rolled her r's and broadened the vowels.

He set her down lightly on her feet and then sat down on the single chair in the room so that she could help untie the leather thongs that held his armor together. Divested of his metal coverings, he was still large and imposing, with broad shoulders and thickly muscled chest and torso covered by a linen tunic. His hair was damp, and she realized he must have bathed just before coming to visit her.

It was much cooler in her room than in the common room she'd lounged in. It faced north, and never received the full brunt of the sun's heat during the day. She moved to close the latticed shutters and then turned around to give him a coy smile.

"So I was sinking, we do different tonight. Yes?"

"Thinking," he said, emphasizing the flick of his tongue from edge of his front teeth.

"Thinking, yes. So?"

"Depends what you had in mind," he said a bit warily, sitting back and raising an eyebrow (well, it was his only eyebrow, really) at her.

This was her secret. Just over a year ago, Marilla had cornered her in the bathhouse with a proposition. LIttlefinger would be selling her soon, she was sure of it, and would Jessalyn please listen? So she had. Marilla was a buxom blonde with a somewhat motherly demeanor, and it was thanks to her that she could speak the common tongue as well as she could. Marilla had helped her wash her hair, and whispered, and gradually she understood. Slavery might be outlawed in Westeros, but that didn’t seem to apply to whores, and Marilla had a limited time to set her affairs in order.

The Hound was a special case, Marilla said. All the girls were terrified of him, so he tended to just want a single girl over time, so as not to "upset the flock," whatever that meant. There were only a few rules to follow, and it seemed simple enough to Jessalyn. One, look him in the eye and pretend his scarred face didn't matter. That was simple enough. Even with the scars, she'd bedded far uglier men and made sheep's eyes at them as if they were as handsome as the Kingslayer himself, and the unscarred side of his face was quite good-looking. Two, don't touch him too much, but let him do as he liked. Again, simple enough. In the year she'd known him, he'd never actually wanted anything but to give her breasts a squeeze or two and then take her. He didn't ask for anything strange, or uncomfortable, and he gave her time to oil up a bit beforehand. Three, keep up the ruse of seeming reluctant in public, so the truth wasn't actually known. And four, give him the chance to approve another girl, if possible, if Littlefinger decided to change the roster. This last rule was what Marilla was doing, as she was getting older, and she was the third (that she knew about) in this strange arrangement, and she knew that she wouldn't be there much longer. She'd asked him, and he'd told her he enjoyed every ounce of her flesh, but perhaps a lithesome brunette next time, so he wouldn't keep imagining her when she was gone?

In truth, it was the third rule that Jessalyn had the most fun with. Marilla had tacit permission to take the rest of the night off when she entertained the Hound, since it was such a _taxing_ experience, and Baelish allowed it on the condition that the Hound never left one of his girls so roughed up that she couldn't work the next day. So every two weeks without fail, and sometimes more frequently, she had an impromptu night off that she could spend exactly as she pleased. Which strangely enough, usually revolved around lounging half-naked and talking to the sworn shield of the prince and eating grapes and slices of cantaloupe.

But rule two had begun to chafe these last three months, as she'd slicked herself and laid down for him. He was kind, in his own way. He talked, sometimes, and made her laugh. He was mindful of his size and never used her hard, never left her doubled over in pain as some men did who had length but no sense and left her bruised inside and cramping and trying not to cry, not even used as a tool; men took better care of their swords and hammers and horses. He was careful, and once he'd slid his hand and fingers across her collarbones and then buried his face into the crook of her neck and she'd actually felt something, had been pulled back from the numb, almost clinical mindset, and had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rocked into him with more than her usual encouragement. 

"So what did you have in mind?" he asked, a little impatiently, and she realized she'd been staring at him from where she stood by the window, staring at his shoulders and broad chest, and the muscular thighs that were stretched out from the chair, and the rest of his legs, which he'd crossed at the ankle. She bit her lip and felt her breath hitch a little in her chest. He may not like this at all, she thought.

"I thought... Will let me? I want," and yes, she had the words for it, but she was suddenly, startlingly embarrassed and couldn't say them, and just wriggled her fingers a little. His face darkened and his forehead wrinkled. "Just a little," she amended and plucked at the hem of his tunic, pulling it up just a bit before he suddenly sat forward in one swift motion and grasped his tunic at the back of his shoulders and raked it over his head.

"That?" he growled, sitting back. She let her fingers flutter down over his shoulders and collarbones, pressed her thumbs against the bones and muscles as she drew her hands outwards, standing over him. His arms were rested firmly against the arms of the chair and she traced her fingers down them, all the way to his fingers and then back up again, back to his shoulders and the fine bones there and down the crease of his chest and across the flat planes of muscle and sinew and they were rippling below her fingertips and her breath was coming short and a want was making itself known in her belly.

He spread his thighs and unhooked his ankles as she knelt before him, and she traced her fingers across his abdomen, along the line of his still closed breeches and then up the ripple of muscles on his stomach and down again. Up and down her fingers stroked, feather-light, and then landed on his thighs with a bit more weight, the palms sliding against him towards his knees and then back up again. 

"You don't like?" she asked, a bit hesitantly. "You didn't want, before. I wanted try," but she was cut off; his fingers were fisting into her hair and drawing her upwards and it didn't hurt, but he was drawing her head toward him, drawing her upwards on her knees and his lips met hers before she could even think and he was kissing her, which he'd never done before.

His lips were... insistent, the coldly logical side of her mind said. The rest of her was melting under the onslaught, as lips that were full and insistent and burnt and hard on one corner, were meeting hers again and again, and sliding and then a tongue had joined the play and she never kissed her guests, never, but she was kissing him and he was a bit clumsy and she slid against him and the clumsiness settled down into something that made her want to fold in upon herself, or fold in upon him. He was meeting her, inquisitive and not demanding but simply seeking and she felt herself opening up like a flower unfurling as barriers dropped in her mind and her body relaxed against his. It was nice in a way that this rarely if ever was, but years of habit had her pulling away from it and tipping her face into his neck, against his shoulder, anywhere but near his face, so that he couldn't reclaim her lips and turn this into something else.

He stood up then and she staggered to her feet with him, swaying a bit on unsteady legs as he grabbed handfuls of coral silk and dragged the loose dress over her head and tossed it aside.She was left bared to the night air, and half-expected him to toss her to the bed and have her the way he had always done before, but he surprised her by pausing and drawing one large finger that barely touched her across her shoulder and down her upper arm and then back up again.

"Something different, hmm?" He spoke quietly, a low growl in her ear. "Do you want me to touch you like this, soft and sweet?" The finger stilled near her elbow and suddenly both hands gripped her, one around her waist and the other around her arm, and she felt herself flung aside to bounce against the bed before she could even register what had happened, and suddenly he was looming over her, pushing her back down against the mattress. "Or like this, showing you what I can do?"

“Sweet, please. What you can do... I know this already,” and she watched as his eyes darkened and his hand lifted to stroke her hair away from her face. 

“Hmm. And what do I get out of it? You get a nice evening, and what you want, and I get to pay for it. Know I’m not getting out of that, so what do I get?”

“What do you want?”

His face lowered towards hers and he was kissing her again before she could turn away, and then he was rolling them so they were on their sides and she didn’t want to turn away anymore, as he deepened the kiss and she felt like she was melting and one large hand was holding the back of her head and then sliding down her neck, her shoulder, ghosting over her ribs and waist. It slid back up to cup her breast and squeeze her nipple just a little too hard, and she mewled into his mouth and was surprised when he relaxed his grip a bit and teased her a little, rolling the point between his thumb and finger. It made her sigh, and he drew away from her a little and she looked up into his eyes, feeling quivery and a little uncertain from the way he was affecting her.

“Why?” he asked, and the rasp of the question was answered by a fluttering in her chest.

“I thought… Out there,” she said, flinging one arm out in a gesture towards the door. “Men see me, they see dream in head, they think make them feel good, but is about them, not me. Yes? And they see you, they see big strong fight, scary big man, always. In here, is secret. No one sees. So here, I am not tool and you are not sword. But if you don’t like....,” she trailed off, suddenly a bit worried he would be angry at her presumption, and bit her lip.

He rolled her onto her back again and pressed hungry kisses along the line of her throat, then captured her lips once more and it was all the answer she needed.

Later, he was still naked and she’d drawn a light robe around herself but left it untied. She popped a grape into his mouth and then took one for herself, still giggling at the story he’d been telling her of the prince and his younger siblings. They were all spoiled, but the prince was absolutely ridiculous in his demands. “So spoiled, if he were milk, he’d be curdled,” the Hound said with a scoffing laugh.

“Did you do this with Marilla?” she asked.

“Marilla wouldn’t kiss me,” he said, shaking his head. “But she was fun, and kind. Sometimes we’d talk, after. Wren was the first, and she kissed me twice, but that was all. I was much younger, then. Verity was very sly and I never knew what she was thinking, but she did at least set Marilla to follow her. And now you.” He leaned towards her then, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure of his own intentions, but she met him halfway and pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss. 

Long after the hour of the Wolf, the Hound made his way down the Street of Silks and turned towards the Red Keep. He had a secret.


End file.
